The Newspaper
by Mari Falcon
Summary: One decision, seemingly small, seemingly insignificant, can change the course of history. Even something as small as a picture in the newspaper.


Well, this idea came into my head. Enjoy it!

The Newspaper

The Ministry was awake and bustling by the time Cornelius Fudge arrived. The green Floo flames ejected him into the entry hall as always with more force than he expected. He glanced around to make sure that no one had seen his ungainly morning stumble, then forced a smile on his face at the numerous witches and wizards who looked up to him for guidance. Well, maybe not looked 'up' to, he conceded as he fought his way through a throng of much taller men to reach the lift.

With a relieved sigh, he stepped inside and adjusted his robes, nodding politely to all the others. They all groaned as a bunch of messenger owls flew in and started flapping in circles.

"Oh, that's lovely," the Minister muttered, sneering at the owl excrement on his shoulder. The door clanged open and he stepped outside, casting a quick charm to cover the white goo.

It dropped the instant he was safely inside his office. "'Tilda," he called.

"Yes, Minister?" his assistant chirped. Her face contorted as she spied the mess on his shoulder. "Oooooh. Here—your extra set of robes are in the wardrobe in your office. I'll take _that _to the drycleaners and pick up today's copy of the _Daily Prophet _for you."

Fudge frowned as he shrugged out of his outer set of robes. "Why isn't it out already?"

"Well, the front page story was about the family winning that lottery, remember?" Tilda said, holding the soiled robes with the edges of his fingers. "Well, it's the Weasleys, and they've got seven kids, so one of them lost the appointment reminder, and they thought it was the next day, and then—well, it was a right fiasco, from what I hear."

Fudge nodded and frowned at the little bit of stubble he'd missed that morning. "Weasley—Weasley—Arthur! Works in the Muggle Artifacts or something."

"Or something," Tilda agreed. "The whole family's barmy if you ask me."

Fudge nodded and stepped into his inner office, quickly throwing on his clean set of robes. He grabbed his mini shaving set and quickly fixed the unshaven spot, smiling at the handsome, definitely _not _chubby man in the mirror. He settled himself at his desk and carefully fixed his quill collection—he never could figure out how they got messed up overnight.

He had just finished when Tilda came back in with the morning copy of the paper. Fudge looked over the picture of the nine Weasleys in Egypt.

"So, Tilda," he said, pushing the paper to the side. "What is on the schedule for today?"

"You mean you've forgotten?" she said with a grimace.

"Forgotten what?" Fudge asked, pulling off the first letter of the 'In' box. It was from Dumbledore, a response to Fudge's inquiry about a minor issue—Fudge dropped it in the trashbin, which gobbled it up 

greedily. He would have responded, but he'd already dumped it on a fresh Hogwarts graduate—it's not like it mattered.

"Ah, you're visit, today, sir," Tilda said.

Fudge scratched his chin. "Visit where?"

". . . Akzaban," she whispered.

Fudge froze, then reached up to rub his is forehead. He had completely forgotten about that. Well, not forgot, per se, but repressed it. It was actually the first thing he had amended upon gaining office: changing it from a yearly visit to every three years. It would have been never, if Fudge had had his way, but the people wanted to see their leader being strong and managing things.

Tilda nodded sympathetically. "I have a firewhiskey shot here for you, when you want to go. And a great large order of chocolate waiting for you at home."

Fudge nodded gratefully to her and buried his head in paperwork for the rest of the day. He glanced at the clock every fifteen minutes or so, and was so worried about the visit that he couldn't eat his meal at all. Finally, four o'clock rolled around and he could delay it no longer.

Fudge stood and downed the shot of firewhiskey. He shuddered as the drink burned his throat, but pulled his warmest set of robes from his wardrobe and wrapped them securely around his body. He stepped outside and gave a final nod to Tilda, who returned a bolstering smile. Fudge hurried to the Apparition Point, ensuring that his robes were buttoned securely around his body.

With a loud crack, the warm, comfortable hall of the Ministry disappeared. Even before he opened his eyes, Fudge shivered. He wished he had worn a warmer set of robes, but as the high, wide stone structure loomed before him, he knew that no set of robes would keep him warm here.

Wearily, Fudge popped some chocolate into his mind and trudged through the frozen mud to the door of the wizard prison. It floated open and Fudge stepped inside, glad to be free of the wind at least. It got unfortunately colder, however, as his Dementor escort floated up to him. Fudge blew his breath out and tried to focus on his job and getting it done. The first time he'd come, he'd thought of being home and a warm bath.

That hadn't ended well.

Fudge followed the Dementor through the cold, stone structure. He stared straight ahead, blocking out the screaming, the crying, the pleas for help.

_They're criminals. They deserve to be here. They're criminals. They deserve to be here. They're criminals. They deserve to be here._

He didn't even realize he'd entered the maximum security wing until a raspy voice broke him out of his chant.

"Well, hello, Minister."

Fudge stopped in his tracks. He turned to face the man in the cell, behind the iron bars, flanked at all times by two Dementors. His hair was filthy black and hung to his elbows, a great, greasy matted knot. Fudge's nose protested their proximity, as he figured the man hadn't bathed in over a decade. His skin was sallow and white. His face was thin and gaunt and his teeth had yellowed. The man was barely a man anymore, little more than thin skin stretched over a hunched over and frail skeleton.

The man in the cell looked up and smiled.

Fudge's heart tightened as he caught a glimpse of the old Sirius Black—the one he'd never have believed a Death Eater.

"Black."

Sirius tilted his head and brushed the hair out of his grey eyes. "Ah, someone who is sane. How nice to see you."

Fudge didn't respond and Sirius frowned. "What, you can't even say anything? Do you know how boring things get here? There's no one to talk to, just Dementors and lunatics."

"And you consider yourself not a lunatic?" Fudge demanded, glaring at Sirius.

The younger man shrugged. "Ah, I'm crazy, but there are different kinds of crazy, you know?"

"No," Fudge snapped. "And I'll be going now. Goodbye."

"Well, if you won't give me company, at least give me your paper," Sirius asked. "And a quill, perhaps."

Fudge frowned, confusion creasing his brow. "Why?"

"I miss the crossword."

Cornelius Oswald Fudge pulled the paper out of his robes and made to hand it to the man. Just before it passed through bars, he hesitated. Sirius blinked up at him, bemused.

Later, Fudge would think over the odd feeling he had. A weight had settled on his shoulders as the newspaper hung between them. For some reason, he felt as if this decision was important, would make some kind of difference.

"Minister? I think you need some chocolate. Dementors seem to be affecting you."

Fudge stared at the newspaper, then at Sirius Black, trying to determine this strange sensation and what he should do about it.

Why did it feel like he was standing on the edge of a precipice, and the next moment would determine which way everything went?

Fudge frowned and shook it off.

It wasn't like the course of history would change if Sirius Black read today's paper.

* * *

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* * *

Have you ever thought of that?

If Fudge hadn't given Sirius the newspaper, he would never have seen Peter, or gotten the impetus to break out and all that would never have happened.

I might continue it if people want me to. What would have happened if Sirius hadn't read that newspaper?


End file.
